One Hundred Thousand
by Toraptor
Summary: [Alternate Universe - Modern Setting] Hashirama's gambling had caught up to him. Staring down the barrel of a gun, he didn't think the situation could possibly get worse. Life, as ever, sought to prove him wrong. Madara came home early.


**_One Hundred Thousand_**

* * *

Hashirama's empty wallet was featherlight, same as the invisible chains winding their way, icy and constricting, around his heart. The wallet dropped to the wooden floorboards, evidence to his damning position, pressed against a solid chair, hands held up, a silent plea on his lips.

Nothing about it was funny. A burble of hysterical laughter was threatening to push up his chest, regardless.

Outside, the sky was turning a dusky winter blue. Bare branches stretched over the window, always reminding him of skeletal fingers. He preferred summer for many reasons. The chill in the air was one of them, but now it was caused less by the weather, and more by the blood draining from his face.

Light reflected off the branches in the way it always did when a car was passing by the apartment. He willed it to roll on past, scatter shadows over the kitchen, and leave the apartment in darkness. It grew in strength, flooded the apartment, lingered in a way that confirmed the sinking suspicion in his gut.

"I promise," he said emphatically, forcing himself to look back at the man in front of him. He was talking fast and trying not to be obvious about it. He had maybe five minutes—eight, if there were groceries. "I promise, I will come through. You have my word. I need a week. No more—just _seven days_, please—"

"That's a lot of money in seven days, Senju," said the man, towering over him in a way that made him meld into the shadows. He was cast sharply in darkness as the light outside the apartment went out. "What're you planning to trade to make even half of it?"

The house ached and creaked in the cold as Hashirama scrambled for an answer. His mind was not in the right place—it was three floors down, in the trunk of a car that was slamming shut. It was thundering up the steps and steeping into the floorboards.

"I have a plan," he spoke, faraway to his own ears. "You'll have your money, I _swear_—"

"A little proof might be helpful," said the man, giving the gun a little wave. "A down payment. Little security goes a long way, you know?"

"Soon, soon—"

The man cut him off with the gun, pushing a patterned ring into his forehead. He leaned in close, so that Hashirama could see yellowed teeth, could smell coffee. The man had helped himself to their stock of leftover pumpkin spice coffee from the autumn.

"You know what's worth a lot of money?" he whispered into Hashirama's ear, as another voice floated down the corridor outside the apartment. "_People_."

Besides the window in the kitchen, a hanging spider plant gave a tremor. There was no fan.

"I'll give you money," Hashirama burst out desperately, as keys rattled in the door, a fresh new terror wiping the previous one cleanly away. "You will have money, just leave him—"

The door opened and a second shadow stepped out of the hallway that led to their bedroom. A flash of metal glinted off the corridor lights. Madara stepped into the living room and froze.

"What the hell—"

"On your knees," said the second man, jerking the gun sharply to the ground with another gun. "Argue and your brains are going to decorate the wall, pretty boy."

Madara, for all thirty horrible seconds, looked as though he might argue on principle. His lips pursed and he circled the living room, into the kitchen. He was pushed down onto his knees with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Hashirama was saying, even as the man in front of him hissed at him to _shut up_, "I'm so sorry."

"We had better owe them less than a hundred thousand, or I swear to the seven sages, Hashirama—"

"_SHUT_ your mouth," said the other man, who was far shorter tempered, stepping in close to knock the gun against Madara's forehead.

Hashirama's heart did a sickening lurch. The chair groaned under his hands, leaving fingerprints like putty. Outside, a wind howled. The walls were a living thing, full of voices, foundations protesting the storms building outside, and the storm happening inside.

"Wait," said the man holding Hashirama at gunpoint. "Turn him around. Let me see his face."

_No_, cried something soul-deep inside Hashirama.

Madara was turned with hard, bony fingers. His raven hair was gathered up and pulled away from his face, showing off highborn cheekbones, full lips. He'd always been beautiful, Hashirama knew, but those were not the people he wanted to see it. They had no right to lay hands on him, to even look at him.

"I recognize you," said the man, sending a protective instinct through Hashirama that was very like the feeling one got as they stared down a predator. Adrenaline crashed through his veins. His face was going numb. "Masami's boy. You're her carbon copy."

"An Uchiha?" said the other, looking down at Madara with renewed interest. "I didn't know the husband was an Uchiha."

"Not officially—it says his former name was Madara Tsumugiya and that he has a sister living in Ka—"

"I don't care," said the other. "How much Uchiha is he?"

"He's _Masami_'s boy." The words were spoken as though they meant something deeper. "That means he's Tajima's son. The heir."

"Oh, shit."

They were looking at Madara as though a golden goose had flown through and not only laid a golden egg, but did another flyby to drop a second one made of diamond. A bony slip of a hand reached out to push a curl of long hair away from Madara's face again. Madara's dark gray eyes, almost black in the fading light, burned like coals of fury.

"_Hands off_," he growled. "I don't care how many guns you have, I will fuck you up—"

Hashirama sucked in a breath as the gun was lined with Madara's eyes, a reminder that bullets traveled faster than Madara could possibly uncoil from his position on the ground.

"Let's make a deal." The grinning face in front of Hashirama's put a churning sense of nausea in his gut. "Don't report Madara Uchiha missing. Go about your life. Get another boyfriend. We'll forget all about your debt."

That they would even suggest it kindled a wildfire in Hashirama's chest that exploded forth with so much force, his vision went white. His tongue tasted like ozone and nectar. Something _snapped_, the house screeched, and the chair shot out from under him.

A _bang_ echoed through the kitchen as a gun went off, a bullet lodged in five inches of wood—two bodies were strung up like ornaments, handing from the ceiling. Vines pierced and wound them, curling them up like a spider's victim.

Hashirama felt as though he'd taken a shot of caffeine extract. His skin was buzzing. A hum of energy was singing, pure and clear, in his head.

Leaves brushed by his skin, soft of angel's wings, as he pushed through the forest that had grown in their kitchen, to where Madara lay on his side. He wasn't moving. The total stillness of his form sent thrills of horror through him, even as he somehow _knew_ Madara wasn't dead. Life was stirring in his body, his heart was thumping—steady, steady—and there was another, unique sort of energy within him. It flickered and snarled like fire.

Hashirama was untouchable. He gathered Madara up, pressed a hand against the side of his chest, where a bullet wound was sluggishly bleeding out. Within seconds, there was a tiny shard of metal dropping to the ground, a faint pink scar on Madara's chest.

There were questions that needed answering. Mysteries that needed solving. Since he was a boy, he'd done his best to act like other children, to be just another child. It was only after he met Madara that he realized he was not the only one who operated on a frequency that was just a little _off_.

He settled Madara in the passenger's side of their car, drove to the coast, where they wouldn't be found. The sky was dark by then, the ocean a glassy void beneath them. The occasional ripple of waves sent moonlight skittering across the surface.

Madara was stirring. Hashirama grabbed his hand, pulled into his lap.

When dark eyes met his, a silent beg in them that everything he remembered was only a dream, Hashirama smiled apologetically.

"We're going to need a new apartment."

* * *

**Notes: ****You can take the Hashirama out of the chakra, but you can't take the chakra out of the Hashirama. Also, I sneaked in a hinted crossover. HeHEHE. (this is why i should not be allowed to write after 2 AM.)**


End file.
